


This Love's Too Good to Last and I'm Too Old to Dream

by littlemel



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 07:57:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3242147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemel/pseuds/littlemel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing about this, the three of them, has ever been logical.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Love's Too Good to Last and I'm Too Old to Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://mcr4u.livejournal.com/profile)[**mcr4u**](http://mcr4u.livejournal.com/) fic exchange and originally posted July 8, 2008. Title from "Blackout" by Muse. Thank you to the ever-lovely [](http://imntsaying.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://imntsaying.livejournal.com/)**imntsaying** for the super-quick beta.

In Bob's defense, it's Frank's idea. Or maybe Jamia's? Bob's not real clear on the details, but Frank's the one who extends the invite.

He stops by a couple days before the wedding, unannounced as usual; Bob is still toweling his hair dry when he answers the door. Frank holds up two Starbucks cups. "Lemme in. I brought breakfast."

"I know you didn't bring me coffee at nine o'clock in the morning out of the goodness of you heart, Iero." Bob steps back, grinning, to let Frank inside. "This is blackmail for something, isn't it."

Frank flashes him one of those up-to-something smiles that always makes Bob kind of nervous, and passes him one of the coffees. "Nah, just plain ol' bribery."

"Oh. Well, in that case." Bob shuts the door and gestures to the kitchen. "Lead the way."

They sit at the counter, elbow to elbow. Bob takes a cautious sip of his coffee, arching an eyebrow at Frank. Neither of them are one to mince words.

"So, me and Jamia were talking last night..." Frank pauses to suck at a bit of foam on the lip of his cup. "And we want you to meet up with us in Fiji for the last couple days we're there."

Bob doesn't know what he was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn't that. He assumed he'd be out of the picture after the wedding. Newlyweds' prerogative, nothing personal. This actually blindsides him a little. Fucking around with your friend and his girlfriend, or even your friend and his fiancée, is a hell of a lot different than fucking around with your friend and his _wife_. Especially if you're one of the groomsmen.

He sets his coffee down, blinking at the countertop. "You want me to crash your honeymoon."

Frank huffs impatiently. "You're not crashing, asshole. You're _invited_. So, are you up for it? Because we already bought you a ticket. And it's nonrefundable. So you can't say no or you'll owe me _at least_ a new guitar and a blowjob."

What's he supposed to say to that? Bob shakes his head, but he can feel the smile pulling at his mouth. "Sneaky."

"I prefer 'clever,' thanks." Frank pushes back from the counter, cuffs a hand over the back of Bob's neck and pulls him in until their foreheads touch. "Jamia'll email you the info, okay?"

Bob nods and Frank ruffles his hair, plants a loud, wet kiss on his mouth. "I'll call later." He backs toward the doorway, waving as he disappears behind it. "Love you, man!" he calls out, and then the door clicks shut behind him.

Bob reaches for his cigarettes, sticks one in his mouth and then scratches a hand through his hair. His fucking life, man. He loves it, but there are times it's a little too goddamned weird, even for him.

*

He considers not going. He'll buy Frank a new guitar and they'll fuck around like usual, and that'll be that. That's the logical part of his brain.

But he gets the feeling this is a last-hurrah type thing, him going to Fiji. Everything's changed or changing or about to change. Everything does, he knows that. Everything has been, slowly. He knows that, too.

This was never going to be a forever thing; it was a for-now thing, a for-fun thing. No strings, no promises, no expectations. It was never supposed to be complicated, and it's still not, but it was never supposed to be more than just fooling around, either. And it definitely is, now. If there was ever a question about that, any doubt left in his or any of their minds, this pretty much just took care of it.

It seems just as logical to go, though, if he wants to and they want him there. And he does, and they do. So he packs a suitcase, charges his iPod, and dusts off his passport.

Because the thing is, nothing about any of this, the three of them, has ever been logical. Logic went out the window the second he kissed back, that first time.

*

He can't remember why everyone was at Frank and Jamia's that night, if it was a "just because" kind of party or if they were celebrating something. He remembers following a bunch of people downstairs and flopping down on the couch, the one from Frank and Jamia's old apartment that Frank refused to give up when they got the house. Jamia's thrown a blanket over it but the thing's still ugly as sin. It's also still stupidly comfortable.

Bob doesn't remember falling asleep, just the opening credits from _Evil Dead 2_ and then Jamia's hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently awake.

"Mornin', sunshine!" She smiles, big, the way that makes her eyes crinkle up.

Bob knuckles at his eyes and realizes Frank's tucked into the opposite corner of the couch, Jamia wedged between them. Everyone else is gone.

"Hey. Where'd everyone go?"

"Home," Jamia says, her hand slipping down Bob's arm. Her other hand is resting on Frank's knee. "A while ago. I didn't want to wake you, but the movie's over, so I'm kicking you out. You okay to drive?"

Bob's more groggy than drunk, but once he's up and outside and behind the wheel he should be okay. Probably. He groans into a stretch, his arms pulled taut above his head.

"Yeah, I think I'm good."

"You sure?" Frank asks, hooking his chin over Jamia's shoulder. "You can crash here if you're not, dude."

"I'm sure." Bob yawns, then cracks a smile. "Really."

Jamia squints at him for a second, her eyes passing quickly over his face. She nods. "Okay."

Her fingers circle Bob's arm loosely as she leans in to kiss his cheek, but Bob goes left when he should've gone right and their mouths end up pressed together, off-center and clumsy. Bob freezes, then ducks out, cheeks burning.

"Sorry," he mumbles. It's taking everything he's got not to lick his lips, to taste her there. "Shitty aim."

Jamia shushes him, scoots closer so her knee is pressed against his, and he can just make out Frank's hand sliding up her leg when she leans in again.

"I don't think you should drive home," she says pointedly, and Bob's nodding, digging his fingers into the arm of the sofa because he doesn't know where else to put them. Jamia nudges in, lips parted, and Bob hears Frank's sharp intake of breath when Bob yields, twisting his fingers in Jamia's hair.

He's been sort of in love with them since forever, is the thing. But he never thought, ever, that this would happen. That they'd actually let him in, that they'd want him, too, that there would even be room. Theory and practice, his indulgent bunk fantasies and reality, are two different things. But maybe not, because Jamia's pulling and Frank's pushing and Bob just closes his eyes, pushes and pulls a little in return because he knows resistance is completely pointless when Frank's got his mind set on something.

They end up on the floor, clothes askew and shoved aside, slick skin under Bob's tongue, in his hands. Frank's giggle in his ear and a pair of mismatched hands on his dick, and it's good, it's easy, it's fucking perfect. Like tumblers in a lock, click-click-click, and there doesn't seem to be any way they don't fit together.

The only weird thing, in the morning, is that it's not weird at all. They sit around the kitchen table eating through a stack of pancakes, and the mark on Jamia's neck is the same as the one on Frank's shoulder, shaped like Bob's mouth.

*

He hates airports. All that _hurry up and wait_ ing, the endless lines, the open staring and camera flashes he still hasn't gotten used to. Airports make his palms sweat and his everything twitchy.

The flight from Newark to LAX is quick, easy. Bob's done it a million times, sleeps through the whole thing. The hard part is the flight from LAX to Nadi. Point of no return and all that. But the layover's quick, just enough time to take a leak and grab a cup of coffee before they're calling his section to board. He only hesitates a second.

He slumps into his seat gratefully and stuffs his backpack under the seat in front of him, pulls his sunglasses down over his eyes. But he feels like he's been asleep for days already: five good hours last night, plus the whole flight to L.A., and his eyes refuse to close again. So he presses his forehead to the window as they taxi out, watches the ground fall away and the sky rise up. He still gets a little thrill out of that, a warm tug behind his navel.

The attendant announces a few minutes later that they've hit cruising altitude and Bob reaches for his bag, digs out his iPod and the book he picked up yesterday. He jams his earbuds in and tries to read, but the words don't make any sense.

*

Bob's a face-value kind of guy. He takes things as they are, as they come; he doesn't spend a lot of time worrying about what they _mean_.

So when he finds himself lying awake at ridiculous o'clock in the morning, thinking about Frank and Jamia and where this whole thing with the three of them is going, he knows he's well and truly fucked.

L.A. was a bad scene, too many kinds of messed up to count or catalogue, but leave it to Frank to turn it all around and take something amazing away from it. Now they're back on the right coast and Jamia's got a diamond on her finger, Frank's got another ugly tattoo, and Bob can't sleep. His phone's been ringing but he's not sure he wants to answer it. Or maybe he wants to answer it too much, when he knows he shouldn't.

But then Jamia comes knocking, her face tight with worry when she throws her arms around his neck. Frank punches Bob in the arm, hard, and Bob laughs, lets them take him home with them. It's the only place he's wanted to be all night anyway.

*

The plane touches down a little before three o'clock local time. Bob's all out of sorts, jet-lagged and fuzzy-brained; he watches his suitcase go by twice on the luggage carousel before he realizes it's his, and makes a grab for it.

Frank wanted to pick him up at the airport, but Bob insisted on taking the hotel shuttle. He wanted the option of having a cigarette or a cup of coffee or just a couple more minutes to get his shit together.

Outside it's hot, sunny. Bob digs around in his backpack for his smokes, lights one and takes a deep, grateful drag. From this angle, airports are all pretty much the same: lots of noise, people, cars. The rumble of plastic wheels on cement, people talking too loudly, drivers laying on their horns when they get blocked in. There's a line at the shuttle.

He digs his phone out of his bag and turns it on. He missed a call from his mom and one from Brian. There's a new text message from Frank: _r u here yet, asshole?_ Bob chuckles and thumbs out a message back to him: _just landed, fuckface. be there soon._ He snaps his phone closed and sucks down another lungful of smoke, letting the sun warm the last of the airplane-chill from his skin.

*

The first time that the sex is kind of bad and they still go to sleep all tangled up together in Frank and Jamia's bed, Bob knows they're all in trouble.

They can't find a rhythm, their knees and elbows knocking, Frank's teeth clipping Bob's lip too hard when Jamia bucks into Bob's hand between her legs. They switch positions, Frank in front and Bob behind, and it's almost good for a few minutes, Bob stroking in and Frank thumbing Jamia's clit, but something's off, still. Jamia puts a hand on Bob's hip and circles Frank's wrist with the other, stilling it with a heavy sigh.

"Sorry," she groans, wriggling away from both of them until she's flat on her back, her face squinched up. Bob can't tell for sure, but it looks like she might cry. "It's just not happening tonight."

Bob watches Frank prop himself up on his elbow and kiss Jamia's neck, just below her ear. "S'all right, babe," he murmurs there, and she touches his face, her mouth twitching up into a half-smile.

Bob looks away, his face hot, his heart slamming into his ribcage. "I'll just-" He tries to free his foot from the knot of limbs at the end of the bed, but Jamia reaches up, out, her thumb skittering across his cheek.

"Don't you dare." She locks her ankles around his and slips her fingers into his hair, tugging him back down to her, to them.

Bob can't say no, so he doesn't say anything, just closes his eyes and tries to match his breathing to theirs, already synced.

*

The private villas are set back from the actual resort, closer to the water. The concierge calls Frank and Jamia to let them know Bob's here, then slides a key across the counter to him along with a map of the grounds, circling Frank and Jamia's villa in blue pen. Bob thanks him and heads out through the back door, taking his time along the winding path.

He's still not completely sure what he's doing here. Saying goodbye, he guesses. It's time. Almost. He takes a deep breath before knocking on the villa door. Frank pulls it open before he can even drop his hand.

"Hey, you made it!" Frank's about three shades darker than he was when he left Jersey. He smells like sunblock and salt when he pulls Bob in for a hug. There's sand in his hair. "You hungry? Thirsty?"

"Fucking jet lagged." Bob squeezes Frank tight.

"Jesus, Frank, let him inside before you start harassing him, would you?" Jamia grins as she elbows Frank aside, taking Bob's face in her hands and kissing him matter-of-factly. The tops of her cheeks and her shoulders are tinged pink, like a permanent happy flush. "Yay, you're here." She grabs his hand, Frank close at their heels. "Come on. I'll give you the grand tour."

They don't even make it past the four-poster bed. Fuck, he missed them.

*

Bob wakes up cocooned. Smooth girl-skin against his chest, the curve of a hip under his hand; rough knees tucked behind his and a small, square hand on his waist. Frank's snoring against Bob's shoulder, and Jamia sighs, threading her fingers through Bob's when he noses at her hair. It's their last day together.

They've spent three days fucking and dozing and swimming in the bay, drinking beer and getting sun-woozy. Bob's sunburnt and sore and happy. It's early still, he's got a few hours before he has to leave for the airport. Back to real life, his own bed. It feels right, now that they've had this. Like they needed it, to be able to let go.

He squints against the sunlight pouring through the window, glaring off the crashing waves, and thinks about how he got here. Not by taxi, two planes, and an airport shuttle, but a few beers too many, his shitty aim, and the wrong turn of his cheek on an ugly couch.


End file.
